Pushing Daisies and Admiration
by Dandy Gal Apples
Summary: Stubborn, self-serving, and foul-mouthed, Shae is the hero no one was looking for. She outlines her own morality, loves payday, and toes the slim line between hero and villain. For the first time in his life of servitude, Charon has trouble keeping pace. Neutral Lone Wanderer / Charon. Slow burn.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

 **Prologue**

I held the Jet dispenser to my ear and shook. Compressed air, chemical, and a metal bead bounced within its metal chamber. There was half a hit left. I circled my lips around the base, pushed the cartridge, and inhaled. Immediately my heart pumped slower, stronger, and my five senses absorbed every inch of the mammoth room outside of Underworld. I stored the empty dispenser in my coat pocket and fumbled for two mentats outside of the wrapper. I ate those too.

Four months ago I threw two-thousand caps at Azrukhal in exchange for a body guard. Needless to say, we did not conclude our transaction and I need to work on my people skills.

"Oooowwww. Wakey-wakey, children!" Three-Dog's voice quietly rallied on my pipboy as I opened the double-doors to Underworld. "It's a bright and beautiful 5:35am sunrise. Things have just peeked over the horizon and I've an odd feeling that the heat is about to turn up. Just yesterday the Lone Wanderer came to me, and you know what she said? She said -" I turned off the radio. I know what I said.

Most of Underworlds citizens were still in bed and the main chamber was quiet except for the sputtering of clunky air conditioners and dehumidifiers. I rounded my way to the steps and stretched my arms wide, wiggled my fingers, and rolled my neck and shoulders. A lady needs to be limber for the ugly things in life.

I walked into the bar with my head higher than last time. I was alert.

Three ghouls sharing a poker game sat at a table to my left, but the other tables were dirty with napkins and abandoned drinks. A bulb flickered and added to the dim edginess that was the 9th Circle. Azruhkal stood behind his bar and polished the handle of his only working tap.

No matter where I stood in the room there were no obstacles or barricades to take advantage of. Where I stood was as shit a place as any.

The bar owner beamed when he saw me. "You know what I love about black people? You take their money, spit on them, scruff them up, and they still want to do business with you," Azrukhal sung to the bar patrons.

I'd never have guessed that smooth skin color was a factor in the post-apocalyptic DC, but evidentially old immortal men hang onto their bigotry. I itch for my revolver.

"What can I do for you? Here to give me another bag of caps?" He asked.

I slipped out of my heavy backpack and lowered it to the floor. I gingerly laid my unloaded rifle and black leather jacket on top of it, and then my scarf and goggles. The partially exposed logo for the Tunnel Snakes lifted me with encouragement.

"A strip tease isn't going to get you his contract," Azrukhal said as he looked me up and down.

Charon pushed himself from the wall and took a step towards me.

 _Dear death-claw sanctuary he's tall_.

His jaw tensed and eyes dragged over me - calculating risk and defense.

I reached for the hem of my pants and drew my revolver. Just as quickly as I could get it out was as quickly as the bouncer could make three strides and re-adjust my aim.

I shot the wall.

He held his fist on my hand and weapon. I slowly drew in a lungs worth of air and braced myself. _You've got this._

I forced my free elbow up and slammed it down onto the ghouls wrist to release the gun. His fist found my jaw. The shock of the strike had me fumble the revolver and step back. I'd taken Butch in fist fights before, but the ghouls punch had me nearly seeing stars.

The bouncer toed my gun backwards and the weapon skid across the floor and away from me. He waited again to see if I'd attack. How far could I press my luck?

"Kill her. Slowly," Azrukhal sneered. He was not amused.

The three poker players leapt from their seats and the heavy exit door slammed shut behind them without a spring to resist it. Charon was briefly distracted by the sudden outburst and with poorly-placed confidence I gripped a chair by its back wings and threw it at him.

 _If I could stagger him I could get the contract..._

The large ghoul side-stepped the chair, grabbed my arm, and pitched me into a round table. I tried to keep pace, but my footing skipped and my chin violently slammed against the metal surface. Pint glasses and nuka cola bottles fell and broke around me as the table teetered and landed on its side. I tasted blood.

I avoided splinters of glass and sticky beer on the floor while I awkwardly tried to regain my footing. I stumbled forward and landed on my hands while Charon skirted around the table and towards me.

I kicked backwards at his knee cap, but he caught my thigh, grabbed my shoulder, and heaved. I was weightlessly escorted into the pool table.

The heavy wooden border of the table kissed my ribs and wind spat through my clenched teeth.

 _For the love of_ -! Blindly I gripped whatever my hands could find and turned my body to attack him. The cueball connected with Charon's temple and I tried again. He was fast. A grunt, a recoil, and he was back deflecting my attack.

The ghoul scratched his fingers against the back of my skull, knotted my brown curls in his fist, and pulled back. I yelped and dropped the cueball. He dragged my body up onto the pool table and slammed my head on the worn velvet surface.

Both of Charons hands found my throat and his large fingers squeezed.

 _Fuck, he's strong._

My heart felt like it was going to punch through my chest. I pierced my nails into his forearms and felt blood on my fingertips. Charons leg pressed between my knees, and his chest and hips pinned me. In any other context his closeness would have been interpreted as intimate.

I kicked my boots against broken tiles and the rubber soles squeaked under either side of him. _Stop. Think. I can_ ' _t win a muscle contest. Think!_

As I released my grip he tightened his and scooted me further so that my feet silently dangled. I gasped, curled my spine into him, and walked my fingers down his ribcage _._ He smelled of gun lubricant and cigarettes. He was restraining himself.

"What're you waiting for?" I wheezed into his neck - so close that I could inhale the heat and salt from his skin.

Charon furrowed his brows. He was perplexed by my taunt and opened his mouth to say something.

My fingers grazed Charons belt and then the combat knife.

 _Please._

Fear began to override the Jet and panic ebbed in. I popped the button of his knife holster, grabbed the worn handle of the blade, and stabbed down. The knife took his thigh and the jagged edge sawed his flesh as I pulled it out.

 _I have one second. Move._

I threw a knee between us and pushed him off of me, then kicked my heel at the fresh gapping wound in his thigh. Charon hissed and pivoted backward. I wheezed and rolled off the pool table to plant my feet.

"You look tired," chimed Azrukhal. He leaned onto the counter with the sort of poise that didn't care that he was in arms reach - he knew his bouncer would finish me. All of this for goddamn principle.

I forced Charons knife down to the counter. Blade met bone and the Jet-induced slow-mo world returned to real time. I attacked again and cut Azruhkal's hand off. _Stay in the game._ My brain finally caught up with my body and I began coughing and gasping, my trachea bruised, lungs burned, and ribs ached. My vision doubled. _Stay._

Azrukhal gripped his bloody bare wrist and gapped. His saliva sprayed my face when he screamed for Charon, but the bouncer was frozen. I followed Charons gaze. His masters hand was free on the counter with a worn metal ring hugging the smallest finger.

I grabbed the hand. Charons eyes tracked between me and Azrukhal.

"Kill him," I croaked.

The bouncer drew his shotgun and fired.

I stumbled back into a cold chair and slumped. The stamina and advantage from the drugs was gone and I was exhausted. I casually held the dead limb on the table top and with my other hand grabbed a bottle of half-drunk whiskey. I poured two shot glasses.

"Good morning," I rasped.

Charon moved slowly, calculated, and sat in the chair across from me. Red blood dotted the floor from his leg, but he made no effort to close the awful gap.

He took hold of one of the two full shots and brought it to his lips.

"Good morning."

* * *

 **Authors note:** How's the teaser? I will be periodically returning to already published segments to improve them, so please give me the toughest criticism you've got!


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

 **Chapter One / Sugar candy**

Blonde dry dust settled over plants, rocks, and animal dens. The annual meeting of gray clouds finally dispersed and for the first time in several days a glimmer of sunlight was able to penetrate through to the Capital wasteland. The barren hills were outlined with a bright orange glow and at a quick glance could have been on fire.

Mornings like this were rare. Tenpenny Tower was not untouched by the dust storm and a thick blanket of dirt clung to horizontal and vertical surfaces alike. It reminded me of the snow I read about in vault books.

I brought the cigarette back to my lips and took solace in the bitter tobacco on my taste buds. I pinched the filter, held my breath, and exhaled the narrow white smoke through my nostrils. I jammed the tail-end of the cigarette into the mouth of an old beer can and listened for the sizzle. It was Charons fault I smoked so much.

I scooted forward in the frayed lawn chair so that my bare knees knocked the balcony rail and my thighs were pinched by the metal edge of the chair. The heat was already becoming unbearable. Hot days and chilly nights.

I flapped the thin fabric of my t-shirt and sat uncomfortably in my favorite pair of underwear.

Many floors below in the courtyard feral ghouls stretched their worn bodies on rocks and picnic tables to warm the radioactive blood in their veins. They were similar to reptiles in that the cold made them stiff and slow.

I reached under my chair for the carbine rifle and sighed at the smooth plastic where my fingers had chiseled their own grooves. "Smile" was carved into the barrel. Happiness is a familiar weapon.

I pressed the gun into my shoulder and laid my cheek to it's side. With both eyes open I peered through the scope and down the short metal barrel. The sun reflected beautifully against the sights and made target practice easy. I breathed deeply and held my lungs.

I teased the trigger.

The recoil of the shot bounced off my shoulder and the bullet whizzed downward. 16 floors below dust leapt a hands-width from a feral ghouls ear and the creature woke to address the threat. Every sun bathing feral frenzied and they circled the concrete fence boundary. Their combined hissing was enough to wake the neighbors if my gun hadn't already.

Some time ago I negotiated homes in Tenpenny Tower for a revolt of ghouls. I didn't know my smooth talking was a death sentence for every smooth skin resident. A slippery one, that Roy.

Proud of my rooster calling I stood and stretched my arms above my head while both hands gripped my gun in a mock jumping jack. I twisted my torso to both sides and dipped down. A warm breeze graced over my sweaty backside and drew goose bumps from my skin. I straightened my back and braced my rifle over my shoulder. I lazily held the gun and twisted the brassy doorknob to my room.

"Shut up!" a deep ghoul voice shouted to the ferals from an adjacent window. I smirked and walked inside.

It'd been several years since I came into possession of Charon's contract and no matter how sweetly I fluttered my eyelashes he still would not divulge his past. "I live to serve," he'd say. He wasn't back yet from last night's hookup and I had our home to myself.

I abandoned my gun on the middle tier of a wooden shelf with the rest of my equipment and glanced around the room. The space was a depressing example of a vacation getaway.

Faux ivory pillars from Caesars palace were randomly placed as if they were an impractical prank. The ghastly green patterned wallpaper peeled and was as unwelcoming now as it was to its interior decorator when it was first laid out.

Godfrey, my robot butler, buzzed and whirled through the room with a rag and cleaning solution. The smell of Washo detergent, and my personal touch, were the only things worth praise.

I glanced at the skeletal remains of the bedframe in the corner and the heap of junk that was dumped on it. My dissected power armor, tools, hardware, metal pieces, jars of bolts, tubs of oil, a broken eye bot, and a remarkable collection of springs all balanced precariously on the wooden slats of the bedframe.

I don't remember when my large roommate and I drunkenly agreed that mattresses are for pussys and tossed it, and related bedding, over the balcony, but he says it was the best night of his life. I made a hammock from a fitted sheet and Charon called dibs on the not-so-white-anymore couch.

Dog-meat stretched his legs at the center of the room and yawned. His long pink and black tongue rolled over his chipped yellow teeth and graying chin.

"We're you on Charon's bed again?" I asked him in a sing-song voice.

"Who's a naughty boy? Huh?"

The mature mutt wagged his tail so hard his butt waved and rouge hairs escaped from his backside. I pat the space between his pointed ears and walked to the dresser.

A black pair of leggings, intended to be worn with metal combat armor, hung flirtatiously from the top drawer. I snatched them and pulled them on like pantyhose, stressing the elastic over my round backside.

Several years of the wanderer lifestyle had burned my vault weight down to muscle, small breasts, and wide bony hips. I didn't like the new me, but I didn't dislike her either. New Shea had stamina, scars, and a mean sucker punch.

I pulled my sweaty t-shirt off over my head, tossed it over my shoulder, and scratched my bare ribs. Completely bare from my leggings up I searched for something suitable in the open drawer.

I pushed aside a ribbon of automatic ammo and grabbed a faded gray tank top.

There was a knock at the main door. Dog-meat perked his ears and scrapped his nails against the floor as he walked to the entry way. He lowered his nose to the gap between the door and tile and sniffed. Particles of dust scattered as he sneezed, and deciding it safe, shifted himself clear of the door. The mutt was old and unable to tag along for adventures, but never stopped protecting me.

I looped both arms through the shirt and pulled my head through. Thick sun-lightened brown curls flattened and bounced back up.

"I'm decent," I called as I smoothed the fabric and tucked it into the waistband of my leggings.

The door opened wide and Charon ducked his head to step into the suite. He closed the door behind him and by habit turned the deadbolt lock. He gave me a quick glance before dropping his eyes.

"I thought you said you were decent?" He asked. He placed his right foot on the arm of a wooden chair and hunched forward to untie his boot laces.

I crossed my arms over my chest to hide my modesty - with the variety of breasts he fondled I was perturbed that he was bothered by mine.

"We've been over this," I said. "I'm not binding my breasts, wearing a sports bra, or underwire. We just need to find a surplus of Vault-Tec undergarments. Besides. No one can tell when my jacket is on."

He grunted disagreement. Charon removed his boots and dropped them beside mine at the door. Dried mud cracked from his boots and scattered on the floor like black ants fleeing a flooded mound.

"Do I have time for routine and a wet cloth?" He asked as he rubbed the back of his neck avoided my gaze. He knew the best way to hike was by bordering sunrise and sunset, so why he was asking was beyond me. _Maybe to clean his crotch_.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. I didn't want another sunburn.

"Wet cloth, yes. An hour of pushups? No."

"Your ankle?"

The ghouls voice was flat and to the point, but his eyes hosted a degree of concern. He lifted his left eyebrow, the scar that cut down the middle of it separated what thick hair remained and stood out as a pale old wound above his faded blue iris.

Charon had every right to be skeptical. I'd like to say I heroically twisted my ankle while throwing my last grenade to an unstoppable behemoth super mutant, thus saving a group of small children... but no. I twisted it on the damn stairs while counting nuka cola caps. Four days and I was stir crazy.

"Bandaged with restricted rotation. It'll be fine," I said. "Another day in here and I'll do more than snipe feral watch dogs."

Charon turned his head to hide his scowl. It was likely that he thought we'd sit still for another week and already had plans. He should be used to my impulse shenanigans.

"I'll be ten minutes," he said.

In a tower of ghoulettes it was easy for him to host a fling for weeks at a time, but lately it was nothing short of ridiculous. I suppose several decades under Azrukhals figurative chastity belt would do that to a man.

 _He's a slut._ There's no beat-around-the-bush about it. He stomps over the bushes, steals a handful of berries, ignores the thorns, and keeps on finding more bushes. I'd never admit it out loud, but his constant plans made me feel left behind and alone.

I collected our gear and put several days worth of water and food in our packs. The trek to find a bobble head wouldn't be more than a day, but there were plenty of things trying to kill me... hunger wouldn't be one of them.

The high-pitched whistle of steam rushing out of the metal kettle distracted me only long enough to remind myself to not look up. Cock jokes came to my vulgar mind, but I suppressed them.

Charon poured the boiling water into a medium sized plastic bowl and diluted the heat with cold tap water. He grabbed a fresh clean cloth from a wicker basket and pulled his shirt off over his head. Old dog tags lifted, jingled, and collapsed back to his chest. _Don't look. Don't look. For all of DCs dusty pastures don't look._

 _Shit._

His shoulders and rib cage seemed wider without cloth to hide them, but hips so narrow and muscular with that perfect V that makes female brains go dumb. It must be my two year dry spell talking, because he looked good.

* * *

We took the elevator down to the first floor. I bounced on the balls of my feet at pace with the jazzy elevator music until I heard the ding. The double doors squealed and jerked on their gears before settling open. We entered the lobby.

The large room was a disaster. Plastic sheets were draped over furniture and fixtures, and the majority of the original tile had been broken up and swept into a pile in front of the u-shaped greeting desk.

The nice thing about living in nuclear aftermath is that very few people redesign their living space, and even fewer people know where to start. No one thought to horde powder concrete or sheetrock panels and hardware stores were fully stocked with whatever other materials we felt we needed. Twenty or more boxes of thick pink marble tile were stacked against the far wall.

Ghoul carpenters and handyman occupied the room and busied themselves with various tasks. The room buzzed with teamwork and every day conversation. Old ghouls were perfectionists to their pre-war trade and worked slowly, but produced awe-inspiring work. I looked forward to an even floor, bright walls, and working lights.

In the corner a ghoul in a blue jumpsuit stood on the second tier of a small ladder and held two electric wires in his hands. He leaned his shoulder against a stone pillar, juggled the wires and a pair of electrician's pliers, and licked his fingertips. He expertly clipped and unsheathed the protective wire casings to expose clean unfrayed copper threads.

"Winthrop?" I called.

The ghoul looked up, and sure enough, it was the technician from Underworld.

"Shae! Hold still. This won't take long." He grinned from his perch.

Golden sunlight filtered through the windows and reflected highlights of cyan in his typical blue hair. At the bottom of both his earlobes were small pointed metal studs that reflected his skin color so well, I wouldn't have noticed them without the light.

"Visiting?" I asked.

I stopped at the foot of his ladder and looked up at him. It felt good to connect with someone who had as much interest in dismantling things as I did. The last few weeks Charon practiced limited conversation habits and I had yet to form a strong bond with someone else in the tower. I was desperate for mutual interest and nerdy chitchat.

The bodyguard didn't bother stopping with me and walked by us towards the double doors. I watched the back of his head and frowned.

"Um, yes? Sort of? I'm seeing how I like the area before I commit," Winthrop said. "Plus this place hasn't had any care since Tenpenny bought it. There's a lot for me to do."

"That's good to hear. To be honest, I thought the renovation would be a shit show. I can't wait to see the greeting desk gone and for this place to feel more like a community instead of a high-brow exclusive douche museum."

Winthrop snorted through his collapsing nose.

"Douche museum? What's that make Underworld?" he asked.

"Trash museum?"

"I worked hard on that trash," said the mechanic as he playfully rolled his eyes. "Hey. Do you mind grabbing the electric tape by the toolbox?"

My eyes searched the base of the stone pillar and found a rusty red box with its tools and miscellaneous contents dangerously spread out on the floor like a modern day flea market booby-trap.

I grabbed the black tape and passed it up to him as he handed me a small pair of rubber-handled pliers. I laid the tool among the heap on the floor.

"You should probably go to him," Winthrop said without looking up from his task. He pinched and twisted several wires together, and freed a strip of black tape with his teeth.

"Hmm?"

I looked towards the glass doors. Charon may as well have been shooting laser beams from his eyes.

"It's fine. We'll chat later," Winthrop said before giving a small wink.

"Drinks when I come back. Don't leave the tower," I waved my hand at him as if fanning a flame. Maybe he'd know a substitute for the rotted propeller belt of my power armor.

"Don't worry. I won't," he laughed.

I took in a deep breath, said my goodbye, and closed the gap between me and Charon. I didn't even give him the satisfaction of a side glance. _Prick._

He opened the door for me and we entered the barricaded stretch between the tower doors and gate where we joined the lead security person, Roy Phillips, and two other men.

Feral ghouls stood on either side of what we misleadingly nicknamed "the foyer". The twenty-five feet of secured walkway was the only safe divider for smoothskins in and out of the tower so long as they did nothing to enrage Roy and his guards. Four pins held four corners of every barricade wall panel and joined them to posts. If those pins were to be pulled up, the panels would collapse, and the barrier would be gone.

"Duration of leave?" Roy asked as he held a pen above faded lined paper on a clipboard. Roy was a short ghoul, only just taller than me, with pinched shoulders and a slim ribcage. He cleaned up since I last saw him and wore an off-white cotton shirt with oyster shell buttons that neatly tucked under a bulletproof police vest. His fiancé, Bessi, must have influenced his wardrobe.

I looked towards the sun, then the horizon, and rechecked my pipboy map. What breeze was left of the sandstorm was cool in contrast to the heat that was already blasting its charm down our backsides. The wind pushed through the gate at the end of the corridor and brought with it small specks of dirt to graze my clothes, skin, and hair. On the other side of the six foot tall metal panels were irritated grunts and hums of feral ghouls who could smell and hear me, but did not have a visual.

"Not long," I said as I readjusted the thin white and black checkered scarf around my neck so that my skin was better protected. "We'll be back around dusk."

Roy nodded and wrote something down.

"If it's not too much trouble, see if you can find a box of cigars for the crew. Lift morale," he said.

"I'll see what we find," I nodded.

Roy waved his hand dismissively and top two security guards, Randall and Mich, escorted us to the gate. Or as I referred to them "Limpy" and "Sour-face".

"Don't kill no more ferals," said Sour face. "Could be someone's cousin."

He lurched his head back, hacked his throat, and spit a powerful snot fueled bullet into the dry dirt. _Classy_.

"What's it feel like to make every woman you encounter taste her own bile when you talk?" I asked him. We stopped behind a harshly drawn line to give the gate enough clearance to open.

Sour-face squinted his eyes at my cheeky grin as Limpy spun the rusted valve to open the gate.

The metal obstruction shuttered and protested as it swayed halfway open and old wheels clicked against rocks and dirt. I followed Charon through the narrow opening and gripped the sling of my rifle a bit more tightly. The gate closed behind us.

* * *

 **Authors note:** To those of you who previously read the story with its first two chapters, thanks for being forgiving and overlooking my obligation to perfection. I want to avoid word-dumping and that's exactly what those two chapters felt like. Plus, I wasn't too happy with Shae. Meet Shae 2.0. And don t worry about Charon he's staying on the path I originally intended with plenty of sarcasm and snide remarks to come.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

 **Chapter Two / Bread crumbs**

We zigzagged through the metro tunnels with little resistance and found even more ease topside on the broken roads between tall industrial buildings. Rusted vehicles stained the pavement orange underneath them as they were parked in a confused conga line headed south. Some still had abandoned luggage strapped to their roofs and in their back seats.

The parking lot in front of us was completely vacant, save for the raiders who made back-and-forth passes along a collapsing cement structure.

If I were to make an educated guess, I'd have supposed the staff in the Bethesda building had a heads-up about queuing for Vault-tec.

Charon and I squat behind a turquoise city bus that had its tires shot out and left little gap between its underside and the pavement.

I briefly leaned my back against its metal siding, and hissed and recoiled as the heat saturated through my leather jacket and stung my shoulder blades and spine. We wouldn't be comfortable outside too much longer.

I directed the business end of my rifle towards the clouds, shoved a fresh magazine into its belly, and disengaged the safety.

"I don't like him," my guardian mumbled, barely audible, as he stuffed red plastic shells into his tactical shotgun and steadied the butt of the gun against his hip. His fingers were tight around the heat shield and his knuckles white from the intensity of his grip. Charon balanced himself on the balls of his feet to compensate against the weight of the half-full backpack he carried.

"What? Raiders? I don't like them either," I said. "Did you grab the frags? I figured we'd rush them and use the main entry as a choke-point."

"Fucker," he said, more for himself than for me. The ghoul bit his bottom lip with his canines.

Clearly he wasn't talking about the raiders. _I'll wiggle it out of him later_.

He plucked a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and beat the box against his knee to pack the tobacco. With one hand Charon flipped open the pack lid and seized a cigarette with his lips. He held the open box for me, but I declined.

"That's the spirit. I like!" I said as I handed him our only reliable lighter and shifted so my knee bumped his.

"Let's find some shade," he replied through pinched lips and glowing cigarette. He stood, shook out his knees to crack the stiff joints, and walked around the backside of the bus to entertain its bumper.

I hoisted myself up and set my rifle along the hood of the bus. I minded my fingerless gloves and avoided the blistering heat by throwing a bent tin can under the guns stock and pivoting.

My first round clipped a raiders shoulder while they were all still unaware. Before I could readjust my aim and seal the deal, a man in a reflective skirt and a cast iron pan on his chest fired his laser pistol. I tilted my head and heard a sizzle. The awful smell of burnt hair warned me to be faster. _Smarter_.

I dropped to my stomach, pulling my rifle with me, and shot out his ankles from the opening between the bus and pavement. As the raider collapsed I shot his skill. Brain matter and flecks of bone sprayed and displayed behind him on the cracked cement.

I rolled and got to my feet. _Keep moving._

I was able to fire one other well-placed shot and disabled an otherwise healthy watch dog. Charon tore behind the raiders with buckshot and blade.

The dog cried out and I felt my heartstrings tug. She shouldn't be here. _I'm sorry, sweetie_.

My companion was quick when he sunk the combat knife into the canines wind pipe. As Charon pulled the blade from her throat bright red blood sprayed outward in rivets like what's typically described in an advanced internal medicine magazine. He must have hit an artery.

While still holding his knife Charon used both hands to operate his shotgun. He pulled on the grip under the barrel, locked his posture to aim, and fired at the first raider who was busy tugging a stimpack from his pocket. Metal beads tore through the man's knee. The ghoul pumped his shotgun a second time and shot the raider in the chest.

Charon accomplished all of this before his cigarette burned to the filter.

When the last body fell we held ourselves still and listened.

My eyes darted to Charon, to the open windows, then to the main entry doors. It was completely silent besides the grains of sand that were carried by the wind as they pelted against concrete, metal, and glass. The storm was picking back up.

This was too easy. I looked back to the tall ghoul and twitched my eyebrows. _What now?_

He pointed to me, exhaled cigarette smoke, and pointed to a shady granite pillar.

I may have held his contract, but he was authority on the playing field. I wasn't sure where I'd be without his knowledge and mentoring. Weaponry, tactics, hand to hand, natural medicine, knots everything I knew about survival I had him to thank.

I pulled my gun close to me, kept my head low, and darted across the gap between the bus and the building. The gravel under my rubber soles rolled freely like marbles and I whirled my left arm to steal back my balance. I stepped and skated behind the pillar like a clumsy duck out of water and slapped my hand against cool vertical stone to stop the uncontrolled momentum. I took a deep satisfied breath and blew out of pursed lips. _Hoooo. That could have been bad._

I looked over my shoulder. Charon relocated himself and was waiting for me at the entrance. I stalked along the gray wall under the open broken windows. A cool breeze bled over the jagged glass and tickled my exposed ears and cheeks. I couldn't wait to get inside.

I joined him by squatting at the opposite side of the closed metal door.

"Graceful," Charon said slyly as he flicked the half-smoked remains of his cigarette. "Ready?"

I nodded. I smiled broadly as my heart revved with the conflict of fear and excitement. I reached out and knocked on the door, mindful to keep my hand at knee height in case the raiders were the "shoot first" type.

There was a strained silence for several moments as no one answered. The large ghoul to my left held a frag grenade tightly with the pin already pulled, his muscles tense with anticipation. The door cracked open.

With casual precision Charon tossed the live frag grenade. I watched the smooth black cylinder sail and as it passed the slim opening in the doorway I stole the doorknob and forced the door shut.

Slam!

BOOM!

My ears were deafened by the familiar high-pitched ring, but my eyes were just fine.

Charon wasted no time. He sprang to his feet, opened the door, and repeatedly fired his shotgun until the magazine was empty. We switched spots and I knelt on one knee with the butt of my gun pressed hard to me to limit recoil.

Like all the times before I picked off raiders his shotgun couldn't reach - disoriented people on stairwells, balconies, down the halls, and loitering in inconvenient places until no one was left. I stood and backed myself against Charon with my shoulder touching his bicep. I slipped my fingers into my pants pocket to fidget with the smooth cast of brass knuckles and calm my nerves.

We held ourselves still for several minutes and waited for the ringing to dull, and for more raiders to get impatient and expose themselves.

Charon moved first. He circled wide around me and avoided additional eye or skin contact. It was almost becoming a game for me a sort of power play on how often I could touch him before he would become uncomfortable and move.

The first time we played we were reading on separate ends of the couch and I would get up, busy myself around our suite, and return to the couch just slightly closer. Not so big of a difference that he'd scare off, but closer. _It was like hunting wild Brahmin._ I briefly entertained the idea of him in a field and grinding dead grass in his mouth.

The ghoul walked cautiously to the door and slowly reopened it. He waved me to follow, but there was a strange whirring sound that was gradually getting louder as the flash grenades effects eased. Just before he stepped into Bethesda's west offices I grabbed his elbow. For what felt like the 100th time this week he shot me a death glare.

"Get over it, " I frowned. "Watch for the turret. "

His stern expression eased and he nodded, but said nothing. He was about to turn back to the room to resolve the turret, but I tightened my grip on him just enough to make his head turn back to me.

"When this is over - we're talking about your attitude," I said.

Charon's hand covered his mouth as he peered down his absent nose to me. He pointed a finger, parted his lips, and made his hand into a fist. He gripped his shotgun tighter. I watched his internal skirmish and held my chin up in deliberate defiance.

He slammed the door closed for a second time.

"What. Fucking. Attitude? "

 _Now? He wanted to do this now?_

"This. This is exactly what I'm talking about." I waved my free hand in a circle around him and referred to his stiff body posture and skewed face. "You act as though I stole your favorite Grognark comic, blended it into a mixed drink, chugged it, and then shit it out under your bed while you made nicey nice with another wet hole.

Charon stepped towards me and leaned in. He wanted to be intimidating, and it was working.

"God damn. Get off your high horse and order me not to sleep around if you don't like it," he said through clenched clean teeth.

My eyes widened, but I said nothing.

"My contract shouldn't include my cock."

If I were a rational person I'd laugh and pat his back. I'd offer him a vacation and extra pay. I'd remind him that I was simply holding his contract until he found someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. But I didn't feel rational and I didn't feel like explaining myself. Again I said nothing.

"You're intolerable. Do you want to make profit off me? Is that it?" He asked with a voice on the verge of a growl. He rarely spoke to me and suddenly he's as chatty as a molerat pup? _For what? To be mean?_

I felt myself boil over. I rolled my fingers in and felt my nails bite into my palm. Everything tensed. In one smooth motion my hands met his chest as I shoved him with all the weight I could muster.

The ghoul stepped his right foot back just to keep his balance, but was completely unfazed. The assault didn't even make him flinch.

He removed my pack from his shoulders and carelessly dropped it onto the hot cement. Charon slowly put his gun down, laced his thick fingers together and stretched them backwards so that his knuckles cracked.

He shoved me back, and then impulsively followed it with a solid punch across my cheek.

Charon once told me that physical violence voided our contract and he'd kill me, but this was our third scuffle and he never hinted any desire to smash my skull. He always gave back to me better then what I gave him, but that was the end of it.

My head internally screamed. I wondered if anything was broken. Certainly bruised.

I staggered and bent forward, and slapped my hand to my mouth to stifle back a yowl. Tears welled in my eyes and I took a deep breath.

I wanted to apologize, but for what? _This was his fault_. Since when was Charon my bully instead of my companion?

"Why're you an asshole?" I asked with a slight crack to my voice. I studied the gravel we stood on. I was never very diplomatic, but we had something good once. What happened?

"You keep secrets. You're ugly. You disgust me," Charon said sneering.

I pressed both of my hands to my bent knees and watched drops of blood dribble from my nose to the ground. Each splatter was another second I said nothing. _Be a big girl_.

"You're a hypocrite. You're no better than me - inside or out," I said.

I stood straight and met his gaze. I waited for him to falter.

"Good," he said.

"Good."

The silence had a swollen pregnancy of unresolved tension and suspicion. I didn't feel any better. Both storms were thicker now - the sand menacingly pelted us and our sense of partnership was worse than when we started. I swallowed tangy blood and saliva.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my jacket. Red smeared over faded black leather.

Charon crossed one arm over his chest and pinched the bridge between his eyes.

"I want to know where you go and what you do. At all times. My contract penalizes me every time you leave."

 _Oh. We're back to this_. The source of all our fights. When I leave him behind in exchange for a companion who has choice. They choose to risk their lives for me. Not just that, but I've purposefully kept him in the dark about where I go and what good, or bad, I accomplish.

I often struggled to balance honesty with secrecy. My eyes found everything interesting but his own. It was no different than traveling with Fawkes or Clover, except for the part where they actually knew I was 101 and didn't hold me accountable.

"It's... I can't do that. You wouldn't like me."

 _How exactly would Charon take it?_ Four years and he'd finally have a face to the name he constantly heard on the edge of people's lips. Or maybe it'd take another four years for him to put it together. Wouldn't that be nice.

"I don't like you now," he said with a smirk.

 _Liar_.

 _The_ _bobblehead and Winthrop could wait._

"Want to help me free some slaves... or something?" I asked.

"It's my job," he said, ego finally deflating.

"But do you want to?"

"Yes?"

" 'Yes?' As a 'maybe'? Or 'yes' as a firm 'you want to'?"

The ghoul tilted his head to the side as if to ask me if I was stupid.

"Yes. I want to do something useful instead of this mundane collectors errand."

The throbbing pain in my sinus and rusty bloody aftertaste reminded me just how dangerous Charon could be. Like a hungry hound without a leash.

The ghoul sighed. My hearing cleared and I heard him nervously swallow.

"Come here," he whispered.

I stepped forward so that the pointed toes of my boots touched the round steel-toes of his. I could feel his frustration. I was an idiot for playing this game, but why not?

Charon cradled my face in both of his hands and tilted my head up so he could inspect his damage. His palms were fiercely warm. I wanted to hold his wrists. To kiss his palms. _No. Don_ ' _t think like that._

"It's not broken," he said as he mindlessly wiped blood from my upper lip, "maybe a minimal fracture. We'll know in a few days after the swelling goes down."

He took his hands back as if I'd burned him. I felt my self-esteem crack.

I bent to the side, pressed two fingers to a nostril, and forcefully blew. Clotted blood splattered like chunky spray paint and some got on our boots. I did it to the other nostril and enjoyed the added pain that clearing my airways had caused. One pain to replace another to remind me I'm still alive.

I nervously chewed my dry lips and Charon rubbed Brahmin fat on his.

"Carry your own pack. I'm not your mule," he said.

I flinched, looped a pack strap through my wrist and flung it over my shoulder. He was being stubborn.

"You may not be my mule," I said, "But you sure as hell act like one."

* * *

We spent the better half of the day avoiding the metro, but when the storm became too severe it pushed us underground. I held my scarf clumsily over my mouth and clung to Charon's wrist as he led us down a set of stairs. We ducked into the small cove before the chain link gate and waited. Thick green legs stalked near the top of the stairs, but made no indication of coming down them for a scuffle.

The only nice thing about sandstorms was super mutants, among other beasts, were just as blind and deaf as we were.

The ghoul tugged against the thick chain that looped the gate closed and gripped a padlock. We didn't have bolt cutters. He pulled each gate opposite the other so that I could slip under the strained chain, but Charon had to forcibly wiggle himself through.

I dusted the dirt from my pipboy screen and rerouted the map for Abrahams monument.

* * *

 **Authors note:** Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorite'd, and reviewed. The chapter is a little premature and may get a few more edits, but Gingertreat asked so sweetly.

I also intend to keep Charon with a pump-style combat shotgun and Shae with a carbine rifle semi-automatic - small handicaps make for interesting opportunities.

Enjoy.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

 **Chapter Three / Ghoulash**

We perched at the top of a broken escalator, just the above rusted train tracks and derailed subway cars, and studied the clumsy inhabitants as they weaved between deserted benches and trash. Charon held his combat knife with poise, ready to add another thick layer of blood on top of what had already dried to the weapons iron teeth earlier this morning. We agreed to be careful and take our time since we weren't sure what would be waiting for us at the memorial.

The metro station sang to us in groans and ticks as the storm pushed against our original entrance and made getting back out near impossible for the time being. We had no choice but to stay the night underground.

I pressed my cheek to the smooth butt of my rifle and peered through the scope. It was dark, but sure enough there was another corpse dragging its stupid feet far enough down the tunnel for us to avoid its stupid eyes.

 _Mr. Ornery Meatshield can take the lead._

I waited for quiet to blanket the station and then made a hand motion for Charon to go ahead and descend the deactivated stairs. Each metallic step cried under his weight and the echoes repeatedly bounced back from the the vast underground tunnels and cathedral ceilings.

I tried to time my footfalls with his, but it may as well have been a thousand bombs detonating at once. I was an idiot all-you-could-eat buffet - second isle, to the left.

Charon stopped at the foot of the stairs and tensed. He turned his head to listen and cupped his hand to where his ear had once been. With several stairs separating us I leaned towards him and peered over his shoulder. There _may_ be a green glow along the edges of a door frame? A computer? Jerry-rigged light? The tunnels chorused with the scuffling of feet.

Hisssssss.

BOOM.

A glowing-one erupted and heavy air smacked us like we'd caught the wave of a careless grenade. My teeth felt as if I'd been chewing tinfoil and my whole mouth tasted metallic. I breathed quickly through clenched teeth and scrambled to revive my perception. I instinctually dry-swallowed an orange mentat and the pocket lint that stuck to it.

A talon-company mercenary was thrown through the doorway and into the main hall in front of us, smacking into the side of an already heavily dented subway car and falling limp to the empty train tracks. The body of the old car was weak and its metal wheels moaned against the tracks they desperately tried to keep hold of.

Charon grinned and his eyes widened. He didn't hesitate.

"Run," he said as he sheathed his knife at his thigh and cocked his shotgun.

A handful of feral ghouls entered the dark hallway to collect their tenderized and heavily irradiated dinner. They were led by a topless female who's stomach sank close to her spine and fingertips were raw from clawing previous dinners.

She stopped, straightened her back, turned her head, and immediately knew where we were; as if years of being feral led to the development of the much sought-after "sixth sense".

I held my breath and gripped the stair rail. Her hollow eyes looked through Charon and she hungrily screeched. The other ferals broke to a sprint, but some had dislocated shoulders and useless arms flailed and confused their balance. They shuffled side to side with each long stride, as if they were keeping pace to old banjo music while they ran.

Then they were joined by a pair of their greater glowing cousins.

 _Holy fuck_.

One of the glowing-ones stopped to charge and the luminescent glow in its limbs pulled inward to collect at its chest. Arms, legs, and head mostly disappeared in the darkness and all you could see was a floating green orb where its torso was. It reached its arms upward, almost in prayer, and quietly whistled as it inhaled through black teeth. I lifted my semi-automatic rifle.

"Shae," Charon whispered. He fired a round of blasts at old kneecaps and guarded the base of the stairs.

"What?" I seethed. I carefully raised my rifle and aimed.

"Shae! Run now!"

He was right. I'd be immobilized and disemboweled if I guarded his back so closely. I spun my heel, gripped the short barrel and butt of my rifle, and bolted up the stairs. The harsh gun repeatedly cuffed my chin as I leapt two steps at a time, and the hanging shoulder strap teased my knees as if by some unholy bad luck the frayed leather would scoop my leg and throw me off the escalator.

They swarmed him.

"Find a room," Charon shouted as he abandoned his shotgun and returned to his knife. Buckshot ripped through preserved skin and compressed bones, but a very strong fight can be forced with overwhelming numbers. The ferals were hyped with an unbreakable resolve by the recent radiation burst.

Seconds felt like hours as I steadied my breath at the top of the stairs to get a reliable shot. The bullet cracked the air and pulverized a feral ghoul's abdomen. I was aiming for its chest, but dead is dead.

The last brass shell sailed from my gun and my mind screamed every expletive about Amata's dirty father I could think of. I roughly pulled out the empty magazine, shoved it into my rear pocket, and reached behind myself to try and blindly locate a pre-loaded unit in one of the backpack side pouches. Elbows bend backwards, right?

Two ferals with their legs still intact bypassed Charon and climbed over the escalator rail behind him. He twisted himself and grabbed the ankle of one, cutting the tendon above its heel to disable it.

 _Nope nope nope_.

I didn't have time to reload. I reached into my leather jacket pocket, slipped cold fingers into colder brass knuckles, and discarded the plan about shooting altogether. I guided my arm through the rifles shoulder strap and wore the weapon like an awkward name-brand purse.

With the gun secured I ran back the way we'd originally cleared. Each footfall felt blind and clumsy as I dodged old luggage, sand-rot skeletons, and collapsed cement and rebar.

A mummified hand grabbed the upper loop of my backpack near my wayward scarf and ponytail. Bony fingers were as sharp and narrow as kitchen knives. The ghoul jeered with satisfaction. My foot skid against the dirty floor and I awkwardly used the momentum to swing my arm around and land a hard hit to the ghoul's skull. It crunched. Adrenaline led my attack and I kept punching.

"Let. The. Fuck. Go!" I grit through each assault.

I thrashed and pivoted as the ghoul weakened, but held on. Charon was overpowered and there were many feral feet on the staircase.

 _Shit._

I pressed forward with the weak ghoul still holding me and I took the first open doorway that wasn't a bathroom. I slipped into the room, clutched the door handle, turned, and slammed the weight of the heavy metal door to sever the ghouls arm. The door bounced back and I slammed again. The door closed and I turned the ancient lock. It wouldn't hold.

 _You_ ' _ve got to be kidding me!_

Angry bodies piled behind the door and fists beat and clawed at their barrier. Charons battle cries were muffled by the fray. I slipped out of my backpack and tossed it to the floor so that I could attack will little restriction.

Another radiation blast and my pipboy screeched and crackled. The room was nearly black. I let go of the breath I'd been holding and flexed my fingers over those smooth, reliable brass knuckles. My hand stung.

Quiet came abruptly.

The door knob turned and I lifted my fist. The door opened and I attacked.

Charon caught my forearm. "Relax," he said.

The bodyguard slipped in and closed the door behind him with the sole of his boot. I pulled my arm back and closed my eyes to appreciate the absolute silence and the leftover warmth where he held my forearm. I smiled briefly to seize full enjoyment from the harmony and the pounding heartbeat in my ear drums.

He pressed his back against the door and slid down to a sitting position, his legs stretched and boots touched the wall opposite to us. Charon grunted and held his hip. Radiation oozed from his body and the rusty toxic aftertaste of radiation intensified on my tongue. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, curved around his square jaw, down his neck, and disappeared under his shoulder guard.

"Are you okay?" I asked as I opened my eyes and sidled beside him.

"No," he said very plainly, "I'm high, horny, my body is burning, and I'm bleeding faster than the radiation can heal."

 _Points for honesty._

I turned on the pipboy light just in time to see him roll his eyes at me. The small pastel-green tiled room reflected the soft glow of blue light and I was able to identify metal shelves, a bucket, broom, and miscellaneous tools. We were going to make camp in a cramped maintenance closet. Joy.

I swat the ghouls hand away from his wound.

"Do you know what happened?" I asked as I gripped his armored vest by the shoulder and pushed the plates up. With my other hand I tenderly pinched the bloody wet fabric by his waist and lifted it for a peek at angry flesh. The gash was closing harshly and jagged skin knit itself back together.

"It was a fucking puppy dog," Charon snickered through half-lidded eyes, "Kid. What do you think?"

"… you're going to be fine," I said dryly.

 _Wait. Hello_.

I came back to my earlier revelation at the tower suite. How were his hips and stomach so muscular and perfect despite so much damage? And that muscle above his hip? It juts and dips, and... where on this barren bleak earth did it come from?! Since when did bodyguard equal beefcake? Butch was a flabby comparison.

The corner of Charon's lip lifted to a smirk as he studied me. He pulled our lighter from his pocket, mouthed a partially crushed cigarette, and lit it. He was a chimney.

"You a virgin?" he inhaled and puffed outward. The smoke of his cigarette fell on the pipboy light and dispersed as it traveled to the ceiling. The lit end of the cigarette broadcast an orange glow over his lips. I nearly yelped and let go of his armor.

His voice was like chocolate-covered-gravel.

"Or do you normally travel alone?" he added. _Rough and smooth._

I wanted to taste the nicotine on his mouth. I wanted him to shut the hell up.

"You're high and full of shit," I murmured.

Charon chuckled and took a long drag from his cigarette. The red blaze burned brightly with the force of his lungs and then dulled as he pinched the filter. The ghoul passed the cigarette to me and for the first time I drew from something he smoked first. Perhaps this is what he needed to find camaraderie between us again. Me being a lech and showing him I wasn't scared of his rotting zombie germs.

"How'd I do?" he asked.

I smiled when I felt the wetness of his mouth on the cigarette filter.

"I think I'll keep you," I said jokingly as I sat next to him and stretched my legs like he stretched his, "for now."

* * *

Outdoor shortcuts were rarely easy. Without breaking pace Charon vaulted over a metal guard rail meant to deter cars. I stopped and, oop, one leg at a time, nice and easy, hop from one foot to the other over the barrier, just a wee shuffle, swing the other leg and don't catch your boot, do a little jig, shimmy, pivet, and receive a high-score of 9.3 from the judges. I waved, blew kisses, and thanked my audience of trash and debris. The ghoul was unimpressed.

We came to Lincoln's Memorial as the sun was setting. The day had been cool from the storm and our pace had been greatly delayed. Grains of sand pelted the side of my face with unrestrained ferocity and I reluctantly admitted it wasn't a good idea to have gone exploring. Or was it exploiting? Regardless, I should be in my warm suite, sipping beers, and tossing dingy socks into old tires.

Charon strongly argued to arrive by nightfall so that the howling sand would cover our foot tracks. On my own I would have taken ridiculous rendezvous to keep out of the weather, but the goliath preferred staying topside and took the first metro exit he knew about. This was "the best option" in his most humble and respectful of opinions. _Bullshit._

We jogged across a walkway and came to the side of the monument. Were we facing east? Or were the stairs on the south side? I brought up my pipboy and tried to make out where the entry was, but dirt kept interfering with the touch screen and I couldn't pull up the local map.

Charon was impatient and hoisted himself in one smooth attempt onto the five foot tall platform. He turned, got to his knees, and extended his hand to me.

There were many reasons to host different companions for different adventures, but there was one reason why I held Charon at a distance. Traveling together was becoming a different kind of danger.

The ghoul helped hoist me onto uneven flooring and the primary space of the memorial. My thigh uncomfortably scrapped against jagged rubble and I clawed my free hand into a stone crack on the floor like a novice mountain climber. The backpack was wonky and I lost practice balancing its weight. I dragged myself forward and the ghoul helped me onto my feet, small pebbles stuck to my palms and fingers.

I tried to rotate my ankle to make sure the medical tape held and was glad that side-to-side movement was still limited. I bet my boot smelled like a Brotherhood's jock strap.

The tall stone pillars that bordered the monument were stained reddish brown from the humid dirt and stuck like discarded natures chewing gum. The blue glass panels that composed the ceiling were held by a tic-tac-toe metal frame and were mostly shattered by past wayward bullet activity. Stray bits of glass hid under dirt and sand and only made its presence known as we stepped over it.

It was strange to see the memorial so vacant.

Headless Abraham Lincoln jeered at us from his tall throne. Charon held his shotgun low and walked slowly - obviously on edge after the previous nights unexpected encounter. Plus, these slavers in particular didn't trust me. We'd done some business a few months ago that led to my double-crossing them and doubling my profit. Since then, despite a reliable working relationship, they didn't know what to think of me.

I heard the whip of wire before I saw Lincoln's head drop from a rebar cradle suspended by the ceilings glass and metal frame. The large stone skull vibrated the floor tiles as it crashed, whipping Charon ten feet up to hang upside down by his ankle. Rusty barbed wire cut into his boot with little forgiveness and held him there. His shotgun was thrown by the force of the whiplash and landed at Lincolns feet. I held my breath for a misfire that mercifully didn't happen.

"Should of known they'd booby-trap the place," I shouted upwards to the large ghoul.

Charon unsheathed his knife, folded himself in half, gripped his ankle, and sawed at the old wire. He looked like one of those circus acrobats I'd see in magazine advertisements.

"On second thought," he grunted, "I'd rather be hunting bobbleheads."

 _Of course you would._

The ring of high-pitched gunfire made me quickly inhale and draw my revolver from my hip. My heart dropped with my knee as I kneelt, both hands on the guns stock, and eyes squinting into the sand.

Another gunfire and a bullet clipped the pavement beside my right foot.

"Leroy!" I yelled over the storm.

The pillars and large stone president offered little cover from the weather, and no protection from edgy slavers. The sun sat low and nestled between two black clouds, its vertical rays stretched their hungry fingers like a prisoner reaching between cell bars.

"Shae!" Charon shouted in time for me to turn my head and see the aluminum bat.

The suspended ghoul threw his combat knife downward, clipping the hand of the man who intended to strike me. I scrambled to my feet and whipped around just as the attacker re-assigned his target and swung his bat into Charon. It connected with his spine. The blunt attack echoed a sickening crack and the ghoul hissed as he instinctively stretched downward, waving his arms below his head to try and steal the hollow weapon. Like a burly piñata.

The slaver swung the bat over his shoulder, flexed his fingers, and readied himself for a home run.

I fired my revolver.

My hands shook as the battered blood-splattered bat fell to the floor, followed by the body that previously held it. The bullet had sailed through the man's throat.

"Leroy. I want to talk to Leroy!" I shouted again, hoping more of his men would hold off long enough for their boss to arrive. They hated when uninvited guests got too close to Abraham, and Charon and I were paying for it.

* * *

 **Authors Note:** Those of you who read the story before I revamped the last two chapters will notice that I recycled a little bit of the previous writing (I really liked a scene and didn't want it to get lost in the scrap pile). I hope it was a good decision to plug-in and you're unable to tell exactly where the recycled scene begins and ends.

As always, thanks for your patience, reviews, follows, and favorites.


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

 **Chapter Four / Marinated Meat Kebob**

I pulled back the revolvers hammer and rotated the cylinder - another bullet ready to be discharged. I was so heavily watched by unknown sets of eyes I could practically poke them out two at a time.

I wanted to holster the small gun and grab the violent weapon hanging from my back. I dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. Pulling forward my rifle would make me feel safer, but feeling safe and being safe were two very different things. A bigger gun would jeopardize any opportunity we had thus far of walking away.

"Where's Leory?" I shouted again, "Tell him it's-"I stopped my tongue and sucked in my cheek so that my molars bit into the delicate thick tissue. The side of my tongue could feel the deep pockets and skin flaps from past occasions where I stopped myself from running my mouth. One of my deepest dents is when I nearly mouthed off the Vault 101 Overseer when I was 16.

I looked up at Charon.

The large ghoul folded his core again and worked with feverish fingers to untie and loosen his tangled boot laces, one hand firmly gripped his captive thigh to maintain balance and hold him in place.

"I told you that you weren't allowed around here. We had a deal," a man growled as he ascended the stairs. His silhouette outlined by the setting sun temporarily blinded me and made it hard to identify him.

But I knew that voice, and I observed the slight limp to his gait.

Silas' black hair had grown since the last time I saw him and was slicked to the side by grease and dirt. He pushed a pair of aviator sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, and then with the same hand he blew a shrill whistle that could be heard over the dying wind.

If it weren't for bad company I'd romance about a warm cooking fire and the approaching cold, open, starry night sky.

The slaver who was second in command stopped far enough away from me that proved his uneasiness. Silas wore a chain-linked vest that so tightly strapped to his shoulders and around his stomach he looked like a classic holiday ham. _Fat flesh bursting beyond the strings._

The others came out of their hiding spots.

We were surrounded by seven slavers, plus the mostly dead guy. So, eight. Technically.

I wavered, if only briefly, to reassure the confidence in my step and collect my manner. The "wasteland hardass" I tried to portray was as much myself as the insecure bully vault girl.

Silas unemotionally looked down at the man who struggled between awful shaky breaths. Excess air forced itself through the open hole below his adams apple and sprayed specks of blood on his face and clothes. Every exhale reminded me of the pathetic leavings of an empty spray paint can.

"Release him," Silas said. He flicked his hand in Charons direction and made an example to show that he was mostly in charge. As if letting Charon touch ground while one of his men choked to death would make him merciful.

I'd judge him if I myself didn't exercise similar self-serving traits. Every decision begins with "What do I get?" and "How do I get more?".

My teeth made a sawing motion of my inner cheek as I gingerly hugged my finger around the revolvers trigger.

"I'm here for information," I said through faux-confident up-cast eyes, "and you're not in the position to make deals. Where's Leroy? How's your thigh, by the way?"

 _Play it cool. Be arrogant._

Silas seethed as I prompted him.

Why did he walk like a flaccid dick?

I bet my bullet was still stuck in his femur. He couldn't run if a Brood Mother Deathclaw was behind him with a fresh red manicure.

"Leroy isn't here," he said.

"That's a shame. We both know how slippery the trigger gets when I'm impatient."

The slavers looked between each other, every one hugging their own weapon to protect themselves from my reputation. Slavers and raiders had a good knack for sensing distress in their bosses and either slaughtered them because they were weak and needed to be replaced, or kept their heads low because being ignored was their best camouflage.

As if invoking his name repeatedly could summon him, a man in metal armor ascended the stairs and joined us on the memorial floor. He practically claimed each foot track made by Silas with his own heavy footfalls. He was a dominant old dog pissing his territory.

"We're savvy business people," Leroy said coolly, "Surely we can come to some sort of agreement?"

The big-boss man firmly placed his hand on Silas' shoulder and gave a cheesy wink.

"Why is he not down yet?" I asked as I pointed my spare thumb to the ghoul.

A man and woman dashed to my request. They looked their trap up-and-down, and worked together to untether the awful line that held Charon. His size made them look feeble and incapable. They fumbled and swore between each other, wondering outloud whether it was best to cut the barbed line from Lincoln's head, or unroll it and hope for the best. They weren't sure who would be better to upset, their boss... or me.

A third man jumped to grasp Charon by the elbow and jerk him upside down. He relaxed his core and scrunched his face with minor annoyance. The slaver used a thick plastic zip tie to bind his wrists together and secure them to his rear belt loop.

Not only was Charon umcomfortable, but the likelihood of him choking someone between his ribs and bicep had been greatly reduced. I'd bet 20 caps that he could still manage it and would pay 40 caps to see it happen.

I smiled at the idea of someone passing out while smothering in the ghouls arm pit and busy-man body odor. Weighing Charons options, he likely let the binding happen.

I couldn't afford him more than a side glance. It would be too easy to let sympathy slip in an otherwise sociopath economic enviroment.

"Is this really necessary?" Charon asked as he drummed his fingertips together behind him. His typically tanned scarred face was turning pink from the blood rush and his typically thin, but kept, hair fluttered upside down. Gravity was likely damaging his ankle more than the initial trauma of the snare trap. 220 pounds of muscle and bone suspended from one point and he never grimaced.

"You killed one of our men. I think it's a fair safety precaution," Silas said.

"Who is this?" Leroy asked as he scratched at several days of beard growth with jagged, dirty finger nails. He nodded his head to Charon.

"Don't worry about him," I said. I relaxed my shoulders and flirtatiously lifted a single eyebrow. I bit my lower lip. "Where are you harvesting slaves next?"

Leroy frowned. "I don't trust him."

"You don't need to. You wanted to talk business. Let's talk business. He's being let down. I'm happy. So, where?" I purred as I brushed my hand down his forearm.

Negotiating had a better turn-out when men were led to believe I wanted their junk more than their conversation... but I pretended I was wiping a booger on him. _That makes us even._

I felt urgency.

Every moment that I didn't wrap up the reason we were at the Memorial was another moment that the slavers could lose their drugged-out minds and decide to kill us.

Just for the sake of killing.

 _Because we're inconvenient_.

Leroy remained silent.

The wind storm that had thrashed the Capital wasteland had finally concluded and it made for an errie sort of quiet. Earth stayed on the ground and grouped in zigzags, not unlike the trails of prehistoric snakes that skipped across hot desert fields.

My ears were accustomed to the storms howls and bitter pebble kisses on my neck, and in an odd way I almost preferred its sound-obscuring cries to the absolute quiet.

"The guy was going to kill me," I said.

It was clear Leroy wasn't ready to talk about the open market until the other issue had been resolved. I could bite, but big fish didn't get big by being stupid. _A nibble, then._

"He didn't know who you were."

"That's a lie, and you know it," I snorted and waved my revolver at the group. "There isn't a day you all don't listen to GNR." _And Three Dog is a gossip_.

There was an unexpected thud and another sharp whipping sound as barbed wire freed itself from Lincolns head and reeled up. It whizzed over its support beam and dropped to the ground in coils around Charon, who was the source of the thud.

The two slavers who worked to free him feared reprecussions and winced. They starred at me with wide eyes as I afforded them a glare.

The suddeness and harsh handling of his release startled me, but my expressed cement wall held and my façade kept. I'd have jumped out of my pants if they weren't belted tightly around my bony hips.

Glass cracked as the ghoul grunted and braced himself against his elbow. He began to sit himself up, but then thought better of it and rested on his side with his bound hands still stuck behind him. His knees were tucked together and body rigid from the impact. The ghoul eased his head to the ground, but his whole body was stiff with the need to act.

Charon may not be a mind reader, but he easily read my cards and folded his hands to better our win for the sweet agave pot. It was like we were sewn together at the hip. Four hands, four legs, and one brain.

The ghoul was allowing me to have combat decisions, and making it harder for me to explain (fabricate) why he was a useless companion. This both delighted and infuriated me.

 _That's right. Play dead_.

Silas sighed and stood over Charon as if he were guarding a pay load.

"Yeah, I've heard," Leroy said as his gaze never left mine. "Freeing nobodies now? Listen. You let us keep Lincoln's memorial - let us keep doing our thing - and we'll let you keep your slave."

Did he genuinely feel his offer was appealing? _Or was he threatening me_?

"I'm not a slave," Charon hissed. Even in a position of vulnerability he had balls.

I knew people in this particular occupation were harsh to slaves to break their moral, so I can't say I was surprised when Silas harshly stomped Charon in his temple with the heel of his boot. The large ghoul winced as his head bounced off the concrete.

"Shut up, you," Silas warned him.

I lifted my revolver and aimed it at Silas, paused, grit my teeth, and holstered it. If I held the gun a moment longer I'd kill him for sure, and that's not good for trade.

"W-what the fuck?!" Silas shouted. His voice quivered with alarm by my brazen display.

"You're not negotiating and you're wasting my time. There's one in the barrel. Who do you think it's for?" I seethed as I fisted a portion of my own hair and painfully pulled to stop myself from another out burst.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

Leroy grumbled and trudged over to his right hand. He gripped the fabric of Silas' shirt and jerked him close to talk privately. The two of them never looked away from me as they whispered.

The smaller man nodded, rolled Lincoln's head into a duffle bag, adjusted its weight to his hip, and walked down the stairs.

"Paradise stopped talking to us since your last stint. It's unfortunate your philosophy changed," Leroy said after Silas was out of sight.

"Nothing changed. Theres just more money in freeing, then there is in escorting. I'll be back on your side when the economy changes," I said. _Two truths and a lie._

"They're looking for you." Leroy stepped close to me and placed two hands on either of my shoulders, similar to the way my father had before he said something preechy or parenty.

"I'll make sure I'm easy to find," I replied, returning the favor by placing both of my hands on his elbows. We looked like we were about to sumo wrestle.

Leroy and I shared an awkward laugh.

"Okay. You do what you gotta do," he said. The man squeezed his hand on my shoulder and then offered up a hearty hand shake.

I took his hand with gusto and squeezed with as much firmness as I received.

"I look forward to it," I said. I pat him on his back as a symbol of good faith, and slight mockery, as he waved off the remaining un-named rabble of slavers.

They stayed with their feet glued to the Memorial floor, but scrambled and tucked away when their brains caught up.

Leroy nodded impassively and walked away.

I sighed heavily and turned my attention to Charon.

How long did it take me to diffuse this bomb? How long before I was able to help? _Could I have helped Megaton?_

I eased my back pack off my shoulders and carried it by a single strap. Its odd weight waved like a pendulum as I walked and I dropped it beside him. I needed a blade to cut his bindings and cautiously reached into the loose dirt and sand. My fingers touched glass before they enclosed around the hilt of the sticky, dirty, bloody combat knife. What little of blade the blade that was exposed reflected the rising moonlight and winked with a projected fondness.

I looked back to Charon and opened my mouth to say something snarky about the position he was in. _Bondage humor._

"Oh. And 101?" Leroy called over his shoulder, "This changes everything."

Charons eyes rapidly went from warm impatience to confused interrogation. His vulnerability and mis-placed trust in the hands of a serial killer must have tasted bitter - worse than acid reflux that follows eating the tough bladder of an elderly molerat.

I do good things too. I think. _But he may not see it that way_.

I knelt behind him and sawed at the zip tie with the serated end of his knife. He pulled his wrists opposite each other to avoid injury and give the blade space to pivot if need be.

The plastic was stubborn, but old, and little curly crumbles fell away until the binding snapped. Charon sat up, but never looked my way. He rubbed his wrists with his palms, flexed the muscles, then returned to the boot laces he undid an hour before.

With consideration he pulled on each loose loop and checked the eyelets to tighten the strings, ending the top of the bunch with a crisp double knot. He swung his ankle, and finding it was good too, stood.

"Charon-" I began to ask.

"Don't." He walked to Lincoln's legs and grabed his beloved shot gun from the dirt heep it landed in. He looked down the sights, blew dirt off the trigger and all associated mechanisms, opened the barrel to inspect the live rounds, and snapped it shut. Satisfied, he finally reached to his chest and pulled from him a thick sliver of ceiling glass. It must have pierced him when he fell.

The ghoul grunted and dropped the shard. Dark red blood painted the blue transparent dagger, and Charon wiped his bloody hand on his pants like it was nothing. Fresh blood leaked from the hole in his armor where the glass glanced his shoulder and pierced the major pectoral muscle.

"Let's go," he said as he starred out to the super mutant trenches, monument, and mall. His feet were spread evenly apart, shoulders held back, and his shotgun held firmly by its stock.

Charon needed to kill something.

I took in a long breath and grabbed my revolver to reload it. I slid the revolver chamber open with shaky hands and turned the gun upside down. Six empty brass casings chimed as they hit the ground. I couldn't have shot Silas afterall.

"I'd like Dr. Barrows to look at you," I said, rising from my knees and situating my back pack behind me. "You're bleeding and could be concussed."

"If Underworld is where we need to be," he said with indifference.

"It isn't. But your adrenaline is overriding your pain."

"Where?"

I frowned and walked up to him. I was about to have a heart-to-heart, but I looked out to the mall instead. I was embarrassed of my identity. _Or was it shame?_

"I just said. Underworld is-"

"No. Where are we going?" Charon was impatient. He was likely avoiding the 101 issue until he could safely rip into my ass without attracting unwanted wayward bullets.

I sighed. I was more scared now then I was while negotiating. I could have lost Charons life. _Now I've just lost his loyalty._

"Rivet city," I said.

"Let's go."

* * *

 **Authors Note:** Today just wasn't Charon's day. What's the harm count? Trap. Bat. Fall. Boot. Glass.

Did I get them all? I promise to make it up to him, and all of you, in the next chapter. He's a walking one-man army. He'll be fine. I think.


End file.
